Page 20 of Deceiving an Earl
“Immensely. And you?”
“It was well attended.”
Not the answer he had thought she would say. “Well attended?” he glanced over at her, but she was looking straight ahead, again appearing as if she were trying not to laugh.
“You seem amused,” he said.
She drew in her breath sharply, then let out the laugh that she had been holding in. “Don’t you find this…odd?”
“This?” he asked.
She waved an elegant hand in the air. “You and I. Here.”
“I find it…destined.”
“Destined?” She pulled her horse up, and he followed suit, but they were in the middle of Hyde Park in the afternoon. They were causing the pathway to become congested. He motioned for them to move to the side, near a line of trees.
“What do you mean by destined?” she asked when they were repositioned.
He shrugged and looked out over Hyde Park. “I don’t know. It just seems that you and I meeting seemed like it was meant to be. Didn’t you feel it last night?”
She was suddenly serious, looking at him with those dark eyes. “I felt something,” she said, making his heart fly.
“A connection?”
“I don’t know what it was. I’m not willing to name it yet.”
“Fair enough,” he said, determined that he was going to convince her that they were meant to be together. He knew it in his bones. His blood hummed with her and he just knew, more than he’d known anything else in his life, that he and Ellen were meant to be together.
Oliver was more nervous than he anticipated when he approached Ellen’s home. He didn’t know what to expect, and he didn’t know what he hoped to achieve from their meeting.
He missed talking to her. Even years later, he missed the easy camaraderie they had shared and that he had never had with anyone else.
So maybe there was some hope that she wanted something more than the awkward avoiding of each other they had fallen into.
The butler led him into the sitting room. In the light of day, with no one else in the room, it looked like an average sitting room, decorated to reflect Ellen. Priceless vases and objects de art were scattered around the bright and airy room.
She did not leave him waiting for long, and as soon as she entered he picked up on her nervousness.
“Tea will be served momentarily.”
He nodded, not necessarily wanting tea but willing to play out the scene.
She sat on the edge of the couch, her hands folded primly in her lap, her body held so tight that he feared she would shatter if he moved too quickly. He sat opposite her in a comfortable chair meant to complement the couch.
It was apparent that she was not going to speak about anything until tea was served. So they sat in an awkward kind of silence while questions crowded his mind.
Finally he could stand no more.
“How do you know Antoine Bertrand?” he asked, because the question had been preying on him.
She seemed surprised that he had not only broken the silence but asked that question. “I’ve met him at other salons. He’s an interesting man.”
“Are you aware that he is a Chartist?”
She blinked, again seeming surprised by his question. “I don’t see why that matters. The Chartist movement died years ago.”
“Some would like to think it died, but there are others who want to bring it back.”
